Perfection and imperfection
by frukforever
Summary: Arhtur has spent a night over at Francis house. He wakes up in the middle of the night and muses about how Francis is perfect, and how he is not. Arthur's POV


**So, I wrote this story last night at 4am… Honestly, at morning, I didn't even remember writing this :D This is pretty much a what-the-fuck-did-I-write story, yet I still decided to publish it. Enjoy!**

I wake up in the middle of the night, glancing at the man lying next to me. I am glad that there is still some light coming from the windows so I am able to see every detail of that handsome face and that beautiful hair falling down like a curtain. Even when deep asleep and snoring, Francis manages to look simply breath-taking.

Picture a perfect man. What do you think he is like? To me, a perfect man has a body of a model, the looks of an angel… Oh well, the looks aren't the most important thing. The personality of a perfect man is kind, loving, caring… A little bit carefree too, yet he still knows how to be serious. He is wise and loyal, he wouldn't ever even think of cheating on me. He can be a little bit pervert sometimes, yet he is probably the most romantic man in the world.

I have my perfect man next to him, his arms protectively around me. Yet he doesn't know he is perfect, I never tell him. I never say anything good about him, unless I'm drunk. And why I never tell him what I think about him? Well, because I'm not perfect. I'm afraid Francis will only think I've lost my mind.

Picture an imperfect man. I bet he's a lot like me. I am not kind; all I do is insult and yell, really. I do not look good. Okay, maybe I have quite a nice body, but I really cannot stand my face. I have no idea what Francis sees in it. I may be wise, but if I ever show that, it's only to prove that I'm better than other people. Even though I'm not, and I know it. I cannot be romantic, no matter how hard I try. I can't cook, draw, play any instrument. All I can do is write, but no one seems to be interested in literature these days.

I let out a sigh as I study the other man's face, as if I don't already remember every smallest detail of his features. If someone would ask me to describe Francis' face, I would be able to tell them exactly how he looks, from every shade of his blue eyes to the shape of his lips.

I never stay until the morning when I'm in Francis' house. Last night, we both got what he wanted, so I can as well go now. There is no need to stay until he wakes up.

I think a perfect way to wake up would be in Francis' warm arms, his lips pressing gently and tenderly against my own ones, his perfect accent making me shiver as he purrs me the words _'Bon matin'_. I would open my eyes and smile at him, whispering some sweet words before I kiss him just as sweetly as I only can.

Except that wouldn't be perfect. It would be perfect I was replaced with someone else, someone perfect. Like Francis waking up with some beautiful model in his arms. Someone as good-looking, romantic and just gorgeous as he is. Not me. Not a grumpy, never-smiling Briton like me.

I do not belong here. I don't belong in this bed, this room, this house. Everything in here is just perfect, anywhere I look, I cannot find any flaws. This is a place where a man like Francis can live and be happy, be perfect. I belong to my own old house across the channel, where everything is imperfect, from the decor of the rooms to the flowers of the garden.

"Sleep well, Francis", I whisper as quietly as I only can, even I cannot hear my voice. I guess I'm just scared he will wake up and ask what I'm still doing in here.

I get up from the bed, carefully and slowly; I don't want to wake Francis. I gather all my clothes from the floor and dress up silently. Just like always, I gather Francis' clothes and place them on the bed next to him, on the spot where I had been sleeping just a moment ago, his arms still placed as if he was holding me.

I want to slip back underneath the covers and into Francis' arms. I want to press my head against his chest and listen to his calming heartbeat. I want to live a perfect moment with that Frenchman. But I can't do that. I would be the imperfection of the moment.

I watch Francis for a moment, those long, blonde eyelashes and those lips that are curled up into a soft smile. I'm sure he is dreaming about someone else than me. I walk over to the Frenchman and press a gentle kiss on his temple, breathing in his scent.

"I love you", I whisper, my heart beating faster as I breathe out the words. "You're perfect."

But I'm not, that's why I have to go.

I steal the last glance at my beloved one before I get my coat and leave the house, heading for the train station.

"_Arthur… Why do you always leave during the night…?" the Frenchman whispers as he wakes up in the empty bed. "Don't you love me like I love you?"_


End file.
